


as windblown dust

by Athuo



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Just me beating the hell out of our favorite cowboy for a few thousand words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athuo/pseuds/Athuo
Summary: A series of mostly short one-shots in which Arthur gets hurt. (A lot.)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What it says on the tin. Warnings for inevitable medical inaccuracy and copious amounts of hurt/comfort.

It’s quiet in camp, Hosea muses, less out of any sort of somber mood and more out of exhaustion. Half the gang is nursing wounds and bruises of varying severity, but by the grace of God, none of them has been seriously injured. John and Javier are miraculously untouched, Charles is fine save for a long but shallow cut circling his bicep, Dutch sported nothing but a flesh wound on his side, and Arthur had seemed fine as well. He’d been quiet the whole ride back, but that was nothing unusual. Still, it’d be some comfort to Hosea to be certain -

“‘Sea?”

At his name, Hosea glances over towards the source of the noise and furrows his brow as he truly takes in the sight of his boy for the first time. “Arthur? You all right?” he asks, the first inklings of concern muddling his previous relief at everyone making it out all right.

The younger man looks up at him as if just now seeing the man, confusion pinching his expression. Arthur’s slurring, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. Hosea strides forward swiftly, noticing how heavily Arthur is leaning against his horse. His movements are mirrored as Arthur takes a step forward and promptly stumbles. Hosea catches him by the shoulder, steadying him, and the tight pit of worry between his ribs grows. 

“Arthur?” Hosea asks again, voice pitched slightly louder, and he frowns when Arthur winces at the sound of his voice.

“Don’t feel so good,” Arthur mumbles as if confessing to some grievous sin, eyes still roving and feet shifting in place. It’s then that Hosea notices the strangeness of the younger man’s eyes. One pupil is only slightly smaller than usual, but its twin is blown wide, almost eclipsing the cornflower-blue iris. Hosea swivels his head, gaze finding what he’s searching for almost immediately: Dutch, in the midst of having his own wound tended to by Swanson.

“Dutch!” he barks out, and the man snaps to attention, pushing aside the reverend. He’s at their side in a flash, looking a touch unsteady - likely something Swanson gave him for pain - but otherwise holding his own. When Hosea turns back around to face Arthur, the other man is tilting forward dangerously, eyes narrowing in pain.

“Dutch?” Arthur says with a grimace after a moment, apparently genuinely confused as to why he’s there.

“Yeah, Arthur, s’me,” Dutch replies, face twisting with a frown of his own. “You all right, son?”

There’s a long pause. Arthur blinks slowly once, twice. “...where’s Charles?” he eventually asks.

Silently, Hosea and Dutch share a concerned look. Dutch indulges him nonetheless, though his voice is slow as he answers. “He’s over with Miss Grimshaw, gettin’ stitched up. Don’t you… don’t you remember?” By the time he’s finished the question, though, Arthur’s gaze has already strayed from them. 

“Let’s get him to his tent,” Hosea murmurs under his breath, though it’s unlikely Arthur would even understand what he’s saying at this point. Moving slowly, as if approaching a spooked horse, the two of them duck seamlessly under Arthur’s arms. The younger man, for his part, blinks once but - thankfully - doesn’t put up a fight. He trips over his own feet a few times, but Dutch and Hosea keep him mostly upright. 

Arthur’s helpfulness in moving decreases drastically and exponentially as they walk. By the time they lay him down on his cot, they’re supporting the bulk of his weight. Hosea cradles Arthur’s head like a newborn colt’s as they ease him down carefully. It’s not until they pull away that Hosea notices the wet stickiness on his hands. 

Fear flashes like lightning, swift and white-hot, through him. “Arthur, did you hit your head?” he asks, an undercurrent of desperation in his voice. 

Arthur opens his eyes to a squint - when had he closed them? - and stares at them for a long beat. He nods and seems to swiftly regret it. “O’Driscoll,” he says by way of explanation.

Hosea strains to remember a point in the skirmish at which Arthur would’ve been hit upside the head hard enough to cause this, but he comes up empty until Dutch startles next to him as if remembering something suddenly. “The real blonde one?” he asks, keeping his voice pitched low. 

“Him,” Arthur confirms, eyes drooping shut again.

“Coldcocked him before the cavalry arrived,” Dutch explains. Now that he thinks about it, Hosea partly remembers Arthur seeming a little out of it when he and the rest of the reinforcements got there, but he’d brushed it off as being stunned from a fistfight, presumably with the blonde man at his feet - oh.

“And you let him fight after that?” Hosea demands in a stage whisper. 

“He’s not an invalid, Hosea,” Dutch snaps indignantly. “He seemed fine!”

“Not an invalid,” Arthur echoes in a mumble. Dutch gestures to where the man lies on the cot, as if Arthur’s concussion-induced reasoning were sufficient to back him up. Hosea sighs and runs a hand over his face wearily, letting it drop for now.

“We’ll take turns staying up with him,” he says instead, decisive. The worry gnawing at his ribcage is dampened for now. A concussion ain’t good, sure, but it beats the alternatives for what could’ve caused Arthur’s near-delirium. “He doesn’t improve by morning, I’ll fetch the doctor.”

Dutch nods. “You want first watch?”

Despite himself, Hosea feels a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. For all his bluster and foolhardiness, Dutch knows him too well for anyone’s good. He nods, settling into the chair beside Arthur’s bed.

“I’ll let the others know what’s going on,” Dutch says quietly.

Hosea nods. “Grab the medical kit while you’re at it,” he directs. “Gonna see if I can’t clean up his head a bit.”

Dutch dips his head. He makes to leave the tent but pauses halfway out. His gaze flickers back to Arthur, near-asleep on his bed, and lingers for a long minute. 

The moment passes soon enough, and he slips out to the sight of Hosea taking Arthur’s hand in his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back with another shitty self-indulgent whump minific 😎 this will maybe probably get tweaked at some point but it (and 100 other WIPs) has been sitting in my google doc for long enough so here ya go
> 
> also mind the new warnings

They’re barely half a mile out of Valentine when Arthur notices they have a shadow: a man sporting a bowler hat and top coat, atop a bay morgan and looking anywhere but at them. 

A cold tension stiffens his spine, but he doesn’t kick his horse forwards. Doesn’t do anything different, for that matter, and Jack for his part seems blissfully unaware and content to keep babbling on. 

“-and Momma said if I asked Mister Smith real nice, he might be willing to help me,” Jack says as Arthur re-focuses on the boy. He makes a low, non-committal noise, but it’s enough for Jack. “Momma says he’s the best in camp at it.”

Arthur doesn’t dare risk another glance behind them. He doesn’t hear the hoofbeats coming any closer, which is some comfort, but the idea that the law is on his heels when he’s got little Jack with him keeps his muscles tense and arm tight around the boy. 

If he remembers the trail right, there’s a blind curve right about - there. It’s slight, but it’s enough to keep them out of sight for a moment. It’s all they need.

Silently, he veers Ouray to the side of the road, steering her into the underbrush. Jack starts to protest the abrupt twigs and leaves now scratching at his face, but Arthur clamps a hand over the boy’s mouth and hushes him sharply.

There’s a long moment where the only sound is that of the birds chirping above them. Then, slowly, the hoofbeats from the lawman reach them. There’s a pregnant pause. 

“What the hell?” one of the lawmen says, and it’s so earnestly confused that Arthur almost has to stifle a laugh. 

“Goddammit,” a second voice grumbles. “Well, I’m not staying out here a minute longer’n I have to. Let’s head back.”

“But I was sure it was him!”

“And I’m sure I don’t wanna be dinner for some beast lurkin’ in the trees. Come on.”

The pair’s grumbles fade into the distance, bickering all the while, but Arthur waits another few minutes before loosening his death grip on Jack. The boy turns to peer up at him, eyes wide as saucers.

“Who was that, Uncle Arthur?” he asks, jolting slightly as Arthur nudges Ouray into a trot. For her part, the mare is wholly unconcerned, content to have taken a break from the brief trip. 

“Nobody important,” Arthur says calmingly. Still, he can’t shake the prickling feeling on the back of his neck, and he turns Ouray off the beaten path once more. Roughing it like this might add an hour or two to their trip, but it’s worth it if it shakes the remnants of the law off their tail. 

His words seem to satisfy Jack, and the boy easily goes back to babbling about everything and nothing. Arthur tunes him partially out, turning his attention to the woods around them. It’s quieting as the light leeches out from the sky, rabbits scurrying back to their burrows and songbirds snuggling into their nests. 

The pink haze of twilight has faded into the deep blue-black of night by the time they reach the halfway point. Arthur reckons they’re not more than two or three miles out from camp. Ouray’s hooves drum a steady beat on the packed earth beneath them, pace quickening and head tossing as the darkness settles around them. Like her riders, she has no desire to be out and away from the safety of camp in the dark of night.

Suddenly, there’s the sharp snap of twig branch in the bracken to their left, and Ouray starts harshly to the right, so hard that Jack nearly tips over. Arthur steadies him with one hand and rubs at his mare’s neck with the other, thighs clenching around the barrel of her stomach to stay balanced. 

Ouray whinnies shrilly. “Easy, girl,” Arthur soothes, though his own muscles have gone rigid with tension. It’s probably nothing but a goddamn rabbit, he tells himself, but he can’t shake the urgent need to be back in camp yesterday. 

“What was that, Uncle Arthur?” Jack asks, clearly uneasy. His tiny hands clasp the base of Ouray’s mane tightly.

“Just a bunny rabbit, kid,” Arthur says, trying his best to keep the nervousness out of his voice even as he kicks his horse into a canter.

Ouray is happy to oblige despite the already long ride. She slides into a tense lope, the usual easiness of her gait broken and awkward as she strains to go faster against Arthur’s grip on the reins. Her breath comes in harsh pants, her ears pinned back flat, and her evident anxiety sends a shock of fear up Arthur’s spine.

There’s no warning beyond that single twig snapping. There’s no baying or howling or growling, nothing to indicate danger beyond the hair standing straight up on the nape of his neck.

Arthur turns around in the saddle and sees six sets of amber eyes staring back at him. 

He whips back around wordlessly and digs his heels into Ouray’s side hard. She squeals in surprise but obeys, unsteady canter deftly morphing into an all-out run, and Arthur spares a moment to be thankful for the steadfast speed of his horse.

Jack, for his part, lets out only a tiny squeak before he’s being pulled firmly into a one-armed, protective hold. He opens his mouth to ask what’s happening, why they’re abruptly going so fast, but Arthur speaks before he can.

“Cover your ears, boy,” he commands, craning his torso as he unholsters his shotgun from its sling. He levels it behind him, straining to make out the silhouettes of the beasts whose fur blends so deceptively into the pitch of the night. 

He levels it swiftly and looses two shots, more guesses than anything, and he notes with satisfaction a sharp yowl and a loud thump. The other wolves are unfortunately not deterred, apparently either hungry or stupid enough to pursue even such dangerous prey. 

Arthur reloads rapidly. His next two shots go wide, and as he slides in the next round of bullets, he realizes with dismay that he can no longer see the yellow of the animals’ eyes behind him. 

He has no time for further thoughts before Ouray screams and stumbles in her stride. A glance down shows what he’s now sure is a wolf with its jaws wrapped around her right hind leg, just below the knee. Arthur dispatches it quickly, a slug to the head loosening its grip, but the other wolves only seem spurred on by the sight and scent of the blood. 

Ouray makes a noble effort to continue running, but her wounded leg has weakened her. When the second wolf makes a go at her leg, the mare skids to a stop and rears hard, and Arthur barely has the forethought to clutch Jack to his chest as they go tumbling from the saddle. 

Immediately Arthur gets to his feet, shoving Jack behind him roughly and grabbing his revolver from his side holster. He backs them up against a cliff face, Jack sandwiched between him and the cold stone. One arm snakes behind him as if to further envelop the boy. Jack, for his part, doesn’t resist, body stiff with shock and petrified with fear.

Ouray is still kicking at the wolf on her leg. Arthur aims and shoots at that one rapidly, landing a clean blow through the head. That leaves three wolves still pacing a semi-circle around them. They’re growling, the lot of them, and he feels the low hum in the marrow of his bones.

He knows that an injured Ouray won’t be able to carry both of them fast enough to escape the wolves. Not with his weight, no, but perhaps…

Arthur whistles for the mare even as he aims his shotgun at an advancing wolf. Ouray reluctantly stays nearby, stepping anxiously in place. “Jack, when I say, you’re gonna get on Ouray and you’re gonna run,” Arthur commands.

“But Uncle Arth-”

“ _Now_ , boy!” Arthur barks, pumping his last two rounds into the wolves between them and Ouray. Jack runs and leaps onto the horse. Arthur thanks his lucky stars that the wolves are too distracted by the gun to notice. They don’t even bother to go after the already fleeing horse. 

Three wolves are left, and Arthur is out of ammo.

A strange mix of relief and terror courses through him as the beasts advance. Ouray is running as fast as she can with the injured leg, Jack clutching the saddle horn. The boy turns back and meets Arthur’s gaze, and he knows that the fear in Jack’s eyes is mirrored in his own.

The eye contact only lasts a moment. Ouray disappears through the trees, and the wolves lunge.

* * *

All’s quiet on guard duty. Lenny’s stubbing out the last of his cigarette, balancing his carbine on a nearby rock, when he hears the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats approaching fast. Within seconds, the repeater is cocked and aimed, and he calls out to their unknown guest. “Who goes there?”

The hoofbeats don’t stop. Lenny can just make out a flash of white through the thicket, though, and his wariness grows. “I said who _goes_ there?”

He finds out very quickly, as he’s nearly trampled by the white mass that is, he realizes, Arthur’s horse. He grabs her reins when she slows, shushing and calming her. Her eyes roll in her head, and lather coats her fur. The strangest part, though, is her rider.

“Jack?” Lenny asks in confusion. He runs a hand down the mare’s neck as he takes in the boy for the first time.

Jack is a crying mess. His face is smudged with tears, his sleeves ripped open and blood leaking through in a few spots. His hands haven’t released their grip on the pommel. Almost without thinking, Lenny reaches up and lifts the boy out of the saddle.

To his further surprise, Jack clings to him, and he realizes just how hard the boy is trembling. “What happened, Jack?” he asks, trying to gentle his voice like he hears the women doing. “Are you hurt?”

The boy just clings to him harder. Maneuvering them is tricky, but Lenny manages to support him with one arm and snag Ouray’s reins with the other, and like this they make their way into camp.

Before they’re even fully in the clearing, Lenny is calling for Abigail. Something in the tone of his voice must give away the urgency, because the woman is out from her tent and by their side in seconds. 

“Jack?” she asks questioningly, more confusion than fear in her voice. Her eyes glance up at Lenny for a moment before returning to her son. “Jack, what’s wrong?”

The boy sobs and reaches out towards her. She takes him easily, cradling him on her hip and thumbing at the scrapes on his face. He buries his face in her neck and weeps. Abigail looks up at Lenny, perplexed, and the first inkling of fear shows on her face. Jack is inconsolable, but he manages words for the first time since returning to camp. “Uncle - Uncle Arthur!”

The rest of the camp has filtered over by now, attention caught by the commotion. Realization dawns on Charles first, who had taken Ouray’s reins and calmed her down fully while Lenny returned Jack to his mother. 

“Jack, where is Arthur?” Charles asks, the calm timbre of his voice marred by a faint desperation he tries in vain to keep in check.

Jack, tears still streaming down his face, points in the direction they came from. “The wolves - Uncle Arthur sent me away, but there were so many-!”

An eerie hush falls over the camp for a heartbeat. Then, suddenly, it erupts into noise. Dutch is already barking out orders. “John, Javier - mount up. We leave now.” He turns to Charles. “Is there enough of a blood trail from his horse to track?” Charles nods, and Dutch gestures for him to join them.

In under a minute, all of them are on their horses, with Charles tracking as quickly as he dares without losing the trail. Luckily, Ouray was bleeding enough that the trail is fairly distinct. After about half an hour, the blood on the ground gets thicker, though dried. The woods around them are unnervingly silent, no noise but for the horses’ whuffs. A few minutes more leads them to a mostly empty clearing, the scent of blood strong enough that the horses pin their ears back. 

“Trail ends here,” Charles says, sliding off Taima’s back. The other men follow suit, dismounting quickly and hastily hitching the animals. He doesn’t bother waiting for them and wades through the brambles between them and the clearing.

Charles’ eyes are immediately drawn to a wolf carcass laying on the edge of the open space. It’s got a clean shot through the skull. As he glances around, he realizes the rest of its pack wasn’t so lucky as to be granted such a quick death. Another has a gunshot wound in its torso, blood pooling around the beast.

He notes only absently that the others have joined him in the clearing. Javier still has his gun up, checking the area for further danger, but John and Dutch have forgone thaat precaution in lieu of searching for Arthur. They don’t say anything, but the tension is palpable in the air.

It’s John who finds him first. 

He’d been checking the craggy cliff face that formed a wall on one side of the clearing, loose boulders and sticky wolf’s blood slowing his search. One hand rests on his holster, though he suspects the threat was long gone. 

“Any luck?” Dutch hollers from across the clearing. 

“None yet,” John calls back. As he turns around to keep going, his eyes catch on a piece of dark brown leather. Not unusual, certainly, but it looks oddly familiar. Stepping carefully over another wolf carcass, he levels his gun just in case, aiming at-

“Arthur,” he breathes out, and the world stops around him.

The man is propped up against the stone cliff face, the corpses of two wolves beside him. He’s unmoving, and his head is slumped forward onto his chest. He looks - he looks - 

John doesn’t consciously call for Dutch or the others, but he must have made some noise in his shock, because the other three rush over. All of them are frozen for a long moment, staring at Arthur with wide eyes.

“Arthur?” Dutch asks. His voice cracks on the word. Suddenly, he joins John on his knees - when had he fallen? - and leans forward, arms extending as if to touch the man.

He doesn’t. His hand stops short, shying away from what can only be a corpse. Arthur’s stomach has been torn open, teeth and claw marks gouged into his abdomen. A necklace of deep puncture wounds is scored into his neck, and absently John thinks that that must’ve been the fatal blow. His lower left calf is just missing, the flesh eaten away by scavengers. Arthur’s hunting knife is still balanced precariously in his slack hand. His gaze stares blankly ahead, blue eyes seeing nothing.

“Arthur?” Dutch whispers again. He rallies and brings his hand to brush Arthur’s jaw gently.

Charles moves forward and gently grabs Arthur’s empty hand, pressing his fingers to the man’s wrist. It’s unsurprising but no less devastating when no pulse meets the pads of his fingers. He waits for longer than he knows is necessary, but after a minute of silence, he hangs his head.

“My boy,” Dutch whispers, voice wracked with grief, “my boy...”

The ground beneath them is soaked with blood, that of both Arthur and the wolves. Even so, Dutch keels forward as his shoulders shake uncontrollably. John should be comforting the man, he realizes, but a cold numbness has paralyzed his limbs. Charles is stock still next to them, crouched on his heels and his hand covering his mouth. Javier swears lowly behind them.

Unconsciously, John reaches out towards Arthur, something in him driving him to do so. Even so, the coolness of the other man’s skin is like a jolt of electricity, and the shock of it sends everything crashing down around him again. 

It’s too much, suddenly and terribly. The sound of Dutch weeping beside him, the stench of copper in the air, the sight - the sight of his brother, mauled and mangled and dead, in front of him. John chokes on his own sob and falls backwards into the dirt. As he closes his eyes, the tears that had welled up overflow, and distantly he feels himself start to shake as the world blurs and darkens around him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. More to come. Love via kudos and comments is worth its weight in gold.
> 
> Also, if you have any suggestions for a specific type of whumpy goodness you wanna see me wallop Arthur with, let me know in the comments!


End file.
